


Live-In

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Immediate [4]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Eating, Established Relationship, Living Together, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shizuo growls, too softly for Izaya to hear even if he thought it’d make the least difference, doesn’t look up as Izaya’s footsteps come down the hallway." Shizuo finds living with Izaya irritating, mostly in how easily he adopts a routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suspicious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etstrubal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etstrubal/gifts).



Shizuo’s eating breakfast when Izaya returns from whatever it is Izaya does for the first few hours of daylight on the weekend. It’s raining out, there’s a steady downpour from the clouded-over sky; the weather makes Shizuo feel warm and lazy, persuades him into taking the time to make a batch of eggs instead of the usual cereal-and-milk he typically starts his day with. He’s only just started eating when the door opens to let in the sound of the storm along with the promise of Izaya to ruin his morning.

“Shut the door,” he calls instead of a more thoughtful greeting, not bothering to look up from the plate of food he has before him. “You’re letting all the warm out.”

“What warm?” Izaya asks, his voice sharp enough to carry without the grate of volume he puts on it anyway. Shizuo can hear the scuff of footsteps in the entryway, the smack of wet clothes hitting tile; then, just as a gust of wind makes its way down the hall to ruffle Shizuo’s hair, the door slams shut in deliberately delayed obedience. Shizuo growls, too softly for Izaya to hear even if he thought it’d make the least difference, and doesn’t look up as Izaya’s footsteps come down the hallway.

“We should run the heater higher,” Izaya observes from the hall, still out of sight around the corner to the kitchen. “It’s almost as bad in here as it is outside. How can you stand to  _exist_  in just what you have on? Does your blood run hotter to fuel your inhuman temper?”

“Couldn’t you have stayed out until you froze to death?” Shizuo fires back. “You’re so skinny, I’m sure it wouldn’t have taken much longer.”

“Were you worried about me?” Izaya purrs, leaning in around the corner so Shizuo can see the damp-flat dark of his hair. “Did you have a nightmare about missing me?”

“A nightmare about you, sure,” Shizuo admits, kicks himself back an inch from the table as Izaya approaches. “The missing was notably absent.”

“You’re so mean, Shizu-chan,” Izaya lilts with every evidence of enjoyment. His hand comes down at the back of Shizuo’s neck, his fingers chill enough to win a hiss and shudder of discomfort from the other; Izaya laughs at the reaction, leans in closer so the weight of his body interrupts the movement of Shizuo’s arm in his stalled attempt at eating. “You can’t fool me.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, knowing that regressing to this level of comeback is a sure sign of his loss and too distracted by how cold Izaya’s hand is against his neck to care. “You’re  _freezing_ , what the fuck needed doing in a  _storm_?”

“You were worried,” Izaya repeats, purring the words like he always does, like they’re some kind of taunt or maybe an admission, as if he’s not quite certain of Shizuo’s concern unless he frames it in a box of speech. “You should help warm me back up.”

“That’s not an answer,” Shizuo grumbles, but he’s too heavy with the persistent dregs of sleep to muster sincerity for the complaint; he leaves his breakfast to wait for later, replaces the weight of a utensil with the knife-edge skinny of Izaya’s hip under his hand. “Did you have breakfast already?”

Izaya’s laugh is sharp, loud on intention and so sweet Shizuo would miss the tremor under it if he weren’t listening for it, if he hasn’t retroactively identified this exact giveaway for anxiety in dozens of previous conversations. “Do you always feed yourself multiple times a day?” His hand braces at Shizuo’s neck, is joined by the weight of his arm fitting around Shizuo’s shoulders, and then the balance between them shifts and it’s Shizuo holding Izaya’s weight for him instead of the other trusting his own feet. “Is  _that_  what makes you such a monster?”

“Stop making it sound abnormal,” Shizuo orders, pushes up against the fall of Izaya’s shirt to press his fingertips into the edge of bone under rain-cool skin. “You need to eat more if you’re going to be running all over town getting yourself into trouble.”

“How do you know I’m getting into trouble?” Izaya asks, his face pressed against the side of Shizuo’s neck so the words come against the soft of the other’s undershirt. “I could be helping old women across the street. Saving kittens. Volunteering at the homeless shelter.”

“Because you’re  _you_ ,” Shizuo says. Izaya laughs into his shirt, hums a sound that is as much concession as amusement, and lifts his head.

“Maybe you’re right,” Izaya allows, so easily Shizuo’s eyes are narrowing in suspicion even before he continues. “Maybe I  _should_  join you in your three square meals a day.” He shifts his weight back, looks over his shoulder without letting Shizuo’s neck go. “What areyou eating now?”

“Breakfast,” Shizuo says shortly. “ _Mine_.”

“Hmm.” Izaya considers the plate for a moment. “It doesn’t look terrible.”

“Thanks for the rave review,” Shizuo growls, shoves at Izaya’s hip in a completely futile attempt to dislodge him. “If you want to critique my cooking you can go make yourself something.”

“I haven’t even tasted it,” Izaya points out in the tone of someone explaining something patently obvious to an idiot. “How can I critique it properly?”

“Don’t--” Shizuo blurts as he sees where this is going, but Izaya is already reaching out to snag a bite directly from his plate with complete disregard for the fork right next to it. “ _Hey_.”

“It’s really not terrible,” Izaya allows, reaches out for another bite while somehow completely ignoring Shizuo’s efforts to spill him off his lap and onto the floor. “I didn’t figure you for much of a cook, but it seems I underestimated you.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, because if there’s anything less tolerable than Izaya’s teasing it’s Izaya’s compliments. “Go make your own breakfast.”

“I like yours,” Izaya announces, finally reaching for Shizuo’s briefly abandoned fork. “You should make me something.”

“What?” Shizuo reaches for Izaya’s wrist, manages to catch and stop his motion just shy of acquiring the utensil. “Why the  _fuck_  would I cook you breakfast?”

Izaya looks back at him. For a moment, Shizuo has the premonition that he’s walked right into a trap he didn’t ever have a chance to see. “Because you want me to eat,” Izaya says, confirming Shizuo’s suspicion. “Otherwise I might collapse of hunger in some alley and you’d never know what had happened to me. Think about how worried you would be, Shizu-chan, I hate to think of you suffering.”

“I’ll poison it,” Shizuo growls, aware that his threat is just a thin wrapper for the capitulation of the statement even before Izaya’s teeth flash into the self-satisfaction of a grin. “It would serve you right.”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya chides, leaning in to press a rain-cold kiss to Shizuo’s mouth with so much casual speed Shizuo is still gasping surprise when the other pulls back. “You should really do something about that habit of attempted deception. You’re not even very good at it.”

“Oh, shut up,” Shizuo says, and gets up quickly enough that Izaya nearly falls before he can catch himself and claim Shizuo’s abandoned seat.

Shizuo keeps as much of his attention on Izaya as he can while he’s cooking. Izaya still somehow manages to eat what remains of Shizuo’s breakfast while he’s not looking, leaving an empty plate and a taunting grin waiting for him when he returns to the table. Shizuo rolls his eyes, offers Izaya one of the two plates of food he had the foresight to make, and for a few minutes argument is given over in favor of eating.

Shizuo always appreciates techniques to shut Izaya up.


	2. Unwell

Shizuo wakes up alone.

On the surface of things, this is not that remarkable. He frequently goes to bed alone, due to his late night shifts at the bar and the fact that the pattern of Izaya’s life seems unaffected by such trivial things as work or school or the rising of the sun. But if he lies down alone he invariably wakes when Izaya comes in, groaning his way to consciousness because of an elbow in his side or an order to “Wake up, Shizu-chan” or, if Izaya is feeling generous, because of the slide of lips against his shoulder or fingers dragging at the edge of his pajama pants. What’s more Shizuo can remember Izaya coming to bed the night before, can recall him arriving with remarkable silence and pressing himself in against Shizuo’s shoulders without a word. It had been a relief, at the time, to be able to fall back to unconsciousness so easily, but now the thought drags him awake with uncomfortable speed, pushes him upright in bed to narrow his eyes at the tangle of blankets gone cold with absence next to him.

The front door is still locked when he makes it down the stairs, which is a good argument for Izaya still being in the apartment; he tends to leave the door unlocked if Shizuo’s in the house when he leaves, regardless of whether the other is awake or asleep. But the lights are off down the stairs and in the kitchen, and Shizuo is just starting to think Izaya might have left after all, is just starting to feel a prickle of almost-concern at the unprecedented situation, when he rounds the corner to the living room and sees Izaya asleep on the couch.

Shizuo goes still in the doorway. Izaya’s face looks softer when he’s asleep, the perpetual smirk that usually clings to his lips gone slack in unconsciousness and the bite of color in his eyes hidden by the dark smudge of eyelashes. But there’s tension all through his shoulders, his body hunched in uncomfortably tight under the blanket he’s drawn taut around himself, and as Shizuo watches Izaya frowns, his forehead creasing on discomfort as he stirs but doesn’t quite wake. It looks like it might be a bad dream, like it certainly is an uncomfortable position, and it’s enough to propel Shizuo forward with the intent to draw Izaya out of whatever unconscious experience he’s caught in.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, an ordinary range that would usually be enough to wake the other from the fragile shell of sleep he usually sustains. But Izaya doesn’t move, other than to shift again in response to something unrelated to Shizuo’s voice, and Shizuo frowns, steps in closer and reaches out towards the other’s shoulder.

“Izaya.” Shizuo closes his hand on the soft of the blanket, on the tension of Izaya’s arm underneath it; Izaya’s frown deepens, his back curving in tighter on himself. “ _Izaya_.” Shizuo shakes the other’s shoulder, as gently as he can manage -- and Izaya takes a sudden startled inhale, twists away in a jerky rush of reflexive retreat as his eyes come open. He looks panicked, his arm swinging up as if to block a blow; Shizuo grabs at his wrist before he realizes it’s a defensive motion and not an offensive one, his hold pressing against the narrow line of bone under flushed skin to stall out the action half-formed.

“ _Woah_.” Shizuo’s heart is racing, his body trying to force adrenaline into still-sleepy veins; Izaya is staring at him, blinking hard like he’s trying to find his bearings. “Calm down, it’s just me.”

Izaya takes a breath, lets it out all at once. When he blinks again Shizuo can see him struggle for composure, can see the attempt at teasing that follows in the wake of his lashes. “Did you intend that as  _reassurance_ , Shizu-chan?” There’s no real bite to the words; they sound strained, scuffed raw on the edges of Izaya’s voice, and he’s shutting his eyes even as he speaks, frowning himself back into a crease of pain across his forehead.

Shizuo lets his hold on Izaya’s wrist go, eases his grip on the other’s shoulder. He can feel heat against his palm even through the layers between his skin and Izaya’s; his brief hold on the other’s wrist has left his fingers burning from the contact. “What’s wrong with you?”

Izaya musters a smirk without opening his eyes. “Judging from the way my skin feels like it’s burning off, I’m sick.”

“Why are you on the  _couch_?” Shizuo fits his fingers against Izaya’s neck, over the fading bruise he left there earlier in the week; Izaya tips sideways on the couch, the movement pressing him in closer against Shizuo’s hand. His hair is damp to the touch, clinging to the fever-sweat collected at the back of his neck. “You can’t convince me it’s more comfortable out here.”

“I won’t waste the energy trying to persuade you then.” Izaya opens his eyes as Shizuo leans in, his expression veering towards startled for a moment as the other approaches to press their foreheads together. Shizuo hardly needs the confirmation, not when he can feel unhealthy heat radiating off Izaya’s entire body, but it’s worth it if just for the moment of shocked silence the proximity gets from the other.

“Come back to bed,” Shizuo says without pulling away.

“Don’t want to,” Izaya says, sounding more breathless than petulant. “Walking makes me dizzy.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes, leans back over his knees. “Fine,” he says, and draws his hand away from Izaya’s neck to reach for his knees instead. Izaya whines wordless protest but he doesn’t try to pull away, doesn’t shove Shizuo off even when the other gets an arm behind his shoulders to balance his weight. “Just hold still.”

“You’re sweeping me off my feet,” Izaya drawls, but he lets Shizuo get to his feet without throwing them deliberately off-balance, even lifts an arm up and around the other’s shoulders for extra support. Izaya’s hot to the touch, his head heavy against Shizuo’s shoulder, but he’s not particularly difficult to carry as long as he’s passive to the motion.

“Stay in bed,” Shizuo orders as he turns the corner to the stairs and starts to manage the somewhat precarious process of ascending them. Izaya’s fingers are against his hair, fitting into the strands without the drag of a pull or the scrape of fingernails that would usually come with the contact. “I’ll make some soup.”

Izaya coughs a laugh against Shizuo’s shoulder. “Soup? From  _you_? I appreciate the attempt, Shizu-chan, but I’m not fond of being poisoned.”

“I’m not going to poison it,” Shizuo growls as they reach the top of the stairs and he moves down the hallway towards the bedroom. “And I can cook soup, at least. You won’t get better if you don’t eat anything.”

“Alright,” Izaya says with remarkable compliance. He lets his hold around Shizuo’s neck go as the other sets him on the bed, even stretches his legs out into the tangle of blankets while Shizuo reaches to tug them up over him. “It’s not like I can escape you right now anyway.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, the words easy with habit. Izaya hums as he pulls the blankets into place, shutting his eyes and turning his head down against the pillows on Shizuo’s side of the bed. Shizuo considers protesting, doesn’t; he reaches out instead, touches his fingers to sweat-dark hair to push it up off Izaya’s forehead.

“What  _were_  you doing on the couch?” he asks again, curiosity winning sound out of his throat.

Izaya’s mouth shifts, tugs into a smile that is gone almost before Shizuo can see it. “I wasn’t sleeping well,” he says without opening his eyes. The words are simple, smooth on his tongue; Shizuo can’t hear anything but bland sincerity in his tone. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Shizuo can feel his blush rise under his skin, his cheeks flushing to crimson at Izaya’s words. He doesn’t say anything -- he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack -- but when he leans in Izaya lifts his head to meet him, his lips parted for a kiss far more gentle than what usually forms between them. It’s only for a moment -- Izaya is blisteringly warm, and Shizuo really doesn’t need to get sick right now --  but when Shizuo pulls away Izaya is smiling, and when he moves towards the door to make the promised soup they both let the moment linger in the quiet of unspoken understanding.


End file.
